Fortuna
by RaiRoRa
Summary: Who or what made John Wick what he became? This is my take on his origins and it's a prequel to my other story, 'The Favour'.
1. Chapter 1

This is the prequel to / the origin of my other story, _The Favour_. I would recommend that you start there! This one will be relatively short, but I like the idea of exploring where these characters came from and what made them what they became before I maybe write the next bit of my interpretation of John Wick's story.

X X X

Annie Finnerty stood in Times Square and breathed deep. It was loud and it stank of sweat, heat and excitement. There were so many people - so many different faces, skin tones, hair colours,- all moving, jostling, pushing to find a space to stand and take stock. She felt as though she were drowning in a tsunami of humanity and she allowed herself to drift along the pavement with a group of tourists that spoke English with an accent – British, she guessed, based on the stuff she watched on TV. She yanked the strap of her backpack, holding it tight. It was actually the bag she took her books to school in, but they'd been tossed on the floor beside her battered bed and the bag packed tight with all of her worldly goods. She didn't need much in the way of baggage, she didn't have much to bring: a couple of changes of clothes, a pocket knife she'd found in Quinn's things after he'd died, some chocolate bars and a bag of chips. She'd rifled through the tins in her mom's larder, knowing that she'd find a stash of money somewhere – her mom always hid stuff, then forgot where she put it. Sure enough, in a cracked ceramic pot of weevil-infested flour, she found fifty dollars wrapped in aluminium foil. She pocketed it and checked the others, just in case. She turned up another ten dollars under a pile of dusty coffee beans and put it in the pocket of her faded jeans as well.

Once decided, it took her less than a day to leave. She stole make up from the drug store, her small fingers quick and light, her countenance so sunny and open, she looked like a nice young girl from a respectable home, instead of what her social worker called her: a drug orphan. A kid with two parents who were no longer married to each other but to the drugs of their choice, oblivious to the well-being of their children, except when someone made a move to take those children away. But with the older ones out of home and Quinn dead, it fell only upon Annie's shoulders to keep up appearances and she knew that as long as she turned up for school, got reasonable grades and kept herself looking presentable, none of the grown-ups would have grounds to suspect that she slept in a room with a chair jammed under the door handle, wind rattling through cracked windows, keeping company with a house full of drug-addled adults or, best of all, no adults at all. So she'd decided to leave: her first choice had been L.A. because she really wanted to be an actress – she'd been in a school play, an adaptation of Shakespeare's 'Much Ado About Nothing' and everyone had said she'd been good, like, _real_ good – but sixty dollars didn't get a girl anywhere near L.A. It did, however, get her to downtown New York and from there Annie Finnerty was sure she could get even further.

The days were long, the nights were terrifying. It was warm enough to sleep during the day, so Annie lay out in Central Park, her little backpack under her head, amidst tourists and families, trying to doze in the warmth of the sun. At night she drifted from one well-lit place to the next, trying to stay in the shadows and out of people's way. She'd had a plan to find a job somewhere, find an apartment, but it was hard to find even temporary work stacking shelves and finding a room to sleep in or share was nigh-impossible on her very meagre budget.

She hung on the fringe of a group of teenagers that drifted around downtown at night, figuring there was safety in numbers. They were mostly Hispanics; the girls wore short skirts and had loud voices, the boys pushed and shoved each other around, smoking stolen cigarettes and cursing in Spanish. Annie had a talent for mimicry: she imitated their Spanish, not knowing what she was saying, but quick to pick up and repeat the sounds. They treated her like an exotic little pet, making her say things and laughing when she did so in different voices. She even went back to one of their homes – if the word 'home' could be applied to it. It was as familiar to her as her own 'home', a draughty little hole with wallpaper hanging or scratched from the walls, a dirty toddler asleep on a mattress in the corner. They offered her a joint and she refused; someone offered her a beer and she took it, pretending to drink while watching everything, everyone, alert to every move and prepared to bolt at a second's notice.

The group split before dawn and gathered again in the evening. Annie was beginning to feel a little safer, a little more secure, when one of the boys picked at her backpack and demanded to see what was inside. She twisted out of his gripping, laughing lightly, but he persisted, grinding his cigarette underfoot so he had both hands free to pull at it.  
"Come, Annie," he wheedled, "what you got in there? Money? Drugs? You don't never let it out of your sight."  
"I have nothing in there," she said, pulling away. It was true: she had nothing of any value, but it was _her_ nothing and therein lay its true value, of sorts.  
"Come on, chica," he said. "Show Javi what's inside."  
Some of the other boys, sensing some fun, began to tug at her clothing.  
"Sexy lingerie?" one leered.  
"Dirty pictures?" said another.  
"Stop it," Annie said. "Leave me alone. Leave me alone," she said, pulling out of Javi's grip.  
His face darkened and he grabbed her arm, pulling her face up to his.  
"Let me go," she hissed, "or I will hurt you."  
"Hurt me," he whispered back, "And I will take so much pleasure in hurting you back. And when I'm finished hurting you, I'm gonna let my boys here hurt you, too. Hear me, little one?"  
Annie twisted, turning her small frame to wriggle and writhe beneath his grasping fingers. As he flexed his grip, trying to grab her more firmly, she stuck her pocket knife into his arm, withdrawing its bloody tip in what seemed like slow motion.  
"Hey!" Javi said, his face a picture of shock.  
Annie looked around – had time stopped? The rest of the group were silent, looking at her, taken aback. There was a whooshing sound in her ears and as she heard the sounds of the street, the traffic, slowly return as though someone were turning a 'volume' dial, so did her wits return.  
She ran.  
Javi was cursing bitterly, one of the girls was pressing the wound on his arm to stop the bleeding. Annie flew as though her feet had wings, aware she was being followed by two or three of the boys, all bigger and faster than she.

She came to the edge of the pavement, hesitated, trying to find a break in the cars.  
"Bitch! Wait up, bitch!" one of the boys behind her screamed. She was about to plunge into oncoming traffic when someone grabbed her arm. She looked up. It was a woman, an Asian woman with a serene face, neatly dressed in a long black coat with red fingernails. The Asian woman held up a hand to the approaching youths and they stopped in their tracks. The boys looked at her, then Annie, and reluctantly slunk away.  
Not a word was exchanged.  
"Would you like a cup of coffee?" the woman asked pleasantly. "You look like you could do with a warm drink."

They sat in an all-night diner. The woman introduced herself as Kay – or K? Annie wasn't sure and she didn't ask. Instead, when the coffee was placed in front of her, she said,  
"Are you a cop?"  
"No," Kay laughed. "Not a cop, no."  
"Are you, like, a social worker or something?" Annie asked. The woman had the look of a social worker, that kind of implacable face, one that had seen everything and was not inclined to be shocked by much.  
Kay considered the question. She was about as old as Annie's mom – forty, maybe? – and she was very neatly groomed: her hair was cut in a stern bob and her make-up, though discreet, was flawless.  
"I guess you could say I'm a kind of ... outreach worker," she said.  
"What is that, outreach? Who're you reaching out to?"  
"I'm a recruiter," Kay said, with the same little laugh.  
"A pimp?" Anna asked suspiciously.  
"God, no," the other woman answered. "Do I look like a pimp? No, I work for an organisation that recruits and trains young people in a very particular skill set."  
"What particular skill set?"  
Kay winced delicately. "Security," she said carefully. "We deal in private security."  
"Like bodyguards?"  
"Sure, yes. But ours is a business that requires the utmost discretion, so we would prefer to do some aptitude tests before we commit to training. We really only take the best of the best."  
Annie looked at her over her coffee cup. Kay's face was friendly and she dabbed the corner of her mouth with one of the paper napkins from the stack. Yet there was something about her that made Annie wary. She'd seen the way the boys reacted when Kay had raised her hand: they'd screeched to a halt and something like fear crossed their faces before they'd turned and ran.  
"And you're out recruiting kids on the street?" Anna said. "Sounds like a fancy way to say you're looking for, like, trainee dealers or hookers."  
Kay shook her head. "Absolutely not. Quite the opposite, in face. If we take you on, no drugs or alcohol will be tolerated till your training is finished. And I mean zero tolerance."  
"How long is this _training_?" Anna used her fingertips to make air-quotes.  
"About three years initially," Kay said. "Think of it like a college degree, but if you are selected, you get paid. Just like a college scholarship."

"Why me?" Annie said, taking a careful sip of her coffee. It was hot and bitter, it had probably sat on the hotplate far too long.  
"I've been watching you these past few evenings," Kay said. "You're bright, you're scrappy and you're resourceful. That's good." She smiled at Annie, who smiled back, a tiny movement of her lips. "But why don't you tell me a bit about yourself, first. How old are you, sweetie?"  
"Nineteen," Annie lied.  
Kay held her eyes for a second, then looked away. "And what's your name?"  
"Ann Catherine Finnerty," she replied.  
Kay winced again. "It's a bit ... ethnic," she said. "You wanna think about another name?"  
"I can take another name?"  
"You should take another name. We both know you're here because you don't want to be found. Well, don't make it too easy to find you, choose another name. Doesn't have to be too different – how about Anna? Sounds more sophisticated, right?"  
"Anna," she said. "Okay. And how about ... Quinn?" She thought of her brother, his floppy blond hair and the freckle above his lip.  
"Anna Quinn? A bit more generic – I guess it'll do," Kay said. She signalled to the waitress and paid the bill. "Come on, Miss Quinn, let's go and meet the boss."

Kay had a car parked nearby, in a side street where people hung around in shadows. They melted away when they saw her coming and she pretended not to see them. She didn't drive long, pulling into an underground garage next to a tall building with narrow windows, like an old house that had been converted to offices. She led the way up the stairs nodding to people on the way down. They were all young, Anna realised, a few years older than her. They were mostly guys but they were also passed on the way by a pair of girls, who made no pretence of gawping at Anna she walked by. At the top of the stairs, Kay stopped in front of a door and rapped it quickly.  
"One moment!" came a man's voice from within. They waited silently in the hall, till a young man opened the door. Anna looked up at him curiously: he was tall and thin, his dark hair fell into his brown eyes. He held the door open for them, his head inclined in a kind of a bow.  
"Hello, John," Kay said, her voice warm.  
"Miss Chen," he said, in a surprisingly deep voice. Anna glanced at him, but he kept his eyes lowered.

"What do we have here?" said an older man, standing up from his chair beside the fireplace. The room was quite cosy; it had a large wooden desk and bookshelves on two walls. Beside the fire were two old armchairs that looked well-worn and well-loved.  
"This is Anna Quinn," Kay said, pushing her forward. "The one I was telling you about."  
The older man took her chin in his hand. He wasn't much taller than she was, his hair was quite white and his skin was tanned and wrinkled, an almost shocking contrast to his very blue eyes.  
"Name?" he said.  
"Anna Quinn," she said, her chin still in his hand.  
"Age?"  
"Nineteen," she said, the lie coming easier this time.  
"How old is she, Mr Wick?" the man said, spinning her around to face him.  
The young man ran his hand through his hair, sweeping it back off his face. He stared at Anna for a moment, then glanced away, embarrassed.  
"Uh, seventeen?" he ventured. She glared at him. His skin was smooth and he had a long, straight nose. He was suspiciously... pretty, she thought in distaste.  
"Not a day over eighteen in any case, I'd say," said the old man cheerily. He released her chin. "Am I right?"  
Anna said nothing.  
"Well, now, Miss Quinn, Miss Chen here says you can fight. Would you like to show me how?"  
Anna looked at him, assessing him.  
"Yeah, _right_. Who are you anyway?" she snapped.  
"I beg your pardon. No introductions were made, how rude. I'm Michael Black. Owner of this establishment." He smiled at her genially. "Now, would you care to show me how you can fight?"

She felt slightly absurd; in fact, the entire situation was absurd and Anna couldn't help but wonder if she'd got herself into something she mightn't be able to get out of.  
"Who do you want me to fight?" she asked. "Her?" and she pointed at Kay, who chuckled, as though the prospect was ridiculous.  
"No," Mr Black said. "Mr Wick, if you please."  
"Him? _Here_?" Anna said, looking around. The room wasn't very big and it looked to be full of all kinds of old stuff you didn't want to break.  
"Yes," said Mr Black. "Step forward, Mr Wick."  
"His name is Wick?" Anna grinned. " _Wick_?"  
The young man nodded and he coloured briefly, like a child. He was in his early twenties, she guessed, but still long and gangly like a teen.  
"Off you go," Mr Black said.  
"You just want me to, like, hit him?" Anna said, biting back the urge to laugh hysterically.  
"If you want," the older man said easily.  
"Fine," she replied and stepped forward. The young man looked down at her and she started. His eyes were very brown and very frank. Anna had the feeling he was looking through her and she didn't like it one bit. She shoved him roughly, suddenly angry with him for the intrusion into her private thoughts.

He grabbed her arm and twisted her around, one arm across her midriff, the other across her shoulders to keep her from moving. He smelled clean, of soap and deodorant, and Anna felt ashamed of how she smelled, after the best part of a week on the streets, so she wriggled and pushed, trying to free herself. He held her tighter and she became more desperate, wriggling to create just the tiniest bit of room to wedge her fingers under his grip. He pulled her closer and she became aware of his smell again, his smooth cheek brushed against hers as he shifted his weight to hold her more tightly. He was close enough to smell her greasy hair, her dirty sweatshirt. Anna felt a surge of adrenalin and twisted furiously, moving like an eel to slip out of his grip. Momentarily confused, he loosened his hold to re-grip her and she pulled away, then swung in and bit his arm. He yelped and jumped back and she kneed him in the groin.  
"Hey!" he yelped and she took the opportunity to launch herself at him, only to be held back by Kay, who grabbed her arm and pulled her off.

"Like an alley cat," said Mr Black admiringly.  
Kay released her and patted the young man's arm. "You okay, hon?" she asked.  
He nodded, glancing at Anna, then looking away.  
"What do you think?" Kay asked.  
"She has potential," Mr Black said. He thought for a minute or two, looking her over. "How about it, Miss Quinn? Are you willing to join our ranks and be trained? We offer a stipend for your training, as well as board and lodging."  
Anna didn't know what a stipend was, but board and lodging sounded good.  
"Yeah, sure, why not," she said casually. Her heart was still beating fast, adrenalin was still coursing through her veins.  
"You will sign a training contract, which will be renewed or cancelled after six months. Miss Chen will walk you through the contract, point by point. It is imperative that you understand every single word before you sign."  
"Okay," Anna said.  
Michael Black smiled. "Miss Chen will take you to the office and deal with the paperwork. First, however, you might care to take a shower?"  
Anna blushed furiously. "Yeah," she muttered.  
Mr Black seemed oblivious to her embarrassment. "One last thing. Don't you want to apologise to Mr Wick for any discomfort caused?"  
Anna gaped at him. "Say sorry to him?" she asked.  
Mr Black shrugged. "We are professionals, Miss Quinn. We comport ourselves with decorum."  
"Oh- _kay_ ," she said and turned to the younger man. "Mr Wick," she intoned dramatically, "I apologise sincerely for kicking you in the nads and biting your arm. Please forgive me."  
She extended her hand formally and he took it. His skin was warm and he pumped her arm gently, fixing her with his curious gaze and making her fight to resist the urge to squirm.  
"Apology accepted," he said. "Next time I'll know better."  
"Next time I won't let you get that close," she retorted.  
"Firm friends already," said Mr Black in mock-satisfaction. "Now go with Miss Chen and get your paperwork sorted out."

Kay left the room, Anna trailing behind her. As she pulled the door closed, she caught sight of John, still staring at her. She gave him the middle finger and yanked the door shut.  
 _What a wuss,_ she thought,


	2. Chapter 2

"Fuck you," Anna sang. "Fuck your father, fuck your mother, fuck your inbred siblings. And fuck your fucking cat!"  
The boys all laughed. One of them gave her the finger, which she returned. He looked as though he might make another attempt to jump her, then thought twice about it and turned away. Another noticed Ms Chen in the doorway and a hush fell.  
"Anna," she said in her soft voice. She never raised it; she never had to.

The boys whooped. "Oooh! You're in trouble now!"  
"Fuck off!" she said scornfully and followed Ms Chen out of the room and down the long corridor to her office. It was opposite Michael Black's; Anna glanced at his closed door, a little fearful, but it remained shut. She was probably in luck, she concluded.  
Well, kind of in luck.  
"How long have you been with us now, Miss Quinn?" Ms Chen asked.  
"Four years," Anna said.  
"And you don't mind being the only female student?" Chen enquired.  
"The only one left," she muttered. Kesha, her best friend, had graduated last year and was now working somewhere in Baltimore. Her leaving had left Anna feeling a little adrift and surprisingly vulnerable. Apart from Ms Chen and a couple of the language teachers, she was the only girl at the school and certainly the only one in training. There had been more but, one by one, they had been asked to leave or had dropped out; dropped out long before they fully realised what they were being trained for, back when they thought the long days of physical training, fighting, the psychological stress and academic pressure were simply to prepare them for some kind of job as an elite bodyguard or security agent. One by one, they'd given up, till Anna was the only one left, which made her more determined not to be pushed out and made her male classmates more determined to push her.

"Have you been satisfied with the quality of your education?" Chen asked and Anna nodded. "I hear you have a knack for languages and Mr Benedetti says you have been a good student in music class. Mr Cornell, on the other hand, is not particularly impressed by your contributions in art appreciation. While you might think that Picasso is a ..." She consulted some notes, "...'shit-eating punk', many modern critics would disagree."  
Anna shrugged. "He said himself it took him eighty years to learn how to draw like a five-year-old. I'd say give a fucking toddler a paintbrush and you'd get better results."  
Ms Chen studied her and smiled. "Well, be that as it may, it would be best if you kept these opinions to yourself."  
Anna slumped in her chair and muttered something under her breath which Ms Chen chose to ignore.

"And your professional training?" Chen asked. "Weapons, martial arts, practical arts?"  
"All good," Anna lied.  
She worked hard at weapons, where she was often expected to use guns that were larger and heavier than the ones she would eventually be allowed to choose for herself. The reality of her later work would be that she would often have to make do with what weaponry was on hand and what was on hand was designed and made for men bigger and stronger than her. Her scores were okay, she was not a natural and she needed a lot of practice, but she was dogged and it stood to her stead.  
"Martial arts, too?" Ms Chen probed and Anna coloured.  
She had a temper that was not being calmed by the influence of eastern martial arts. She was still too impulsive and undisciplined. When she followed direction, she could manage to hold her own against some of her bigger and stronger opponents, but if she fought the way she felt like fighting, she was easy to pin down or keep in a stranglehold. This only served to make her more angry and her fighting more erratic - something Ms Chen kept telling her.  
"I know that!" Anna had hissed the last time she'd practised judo holds with Ms Chen. "I know that but I can't help it!"  
"Control, Miss Quinn," Michael Black had called from the side of the ring. "Where is your control?"  
He didn't realise how much control it cost her daily not to kick his door in and tell him to stuff his stupid fucking training up his stupid fucking asshole.

"Practical arts are good," she pointed out to Ms Chen. _Practical arts_ was the fancy term given to the lessons that covered things Anna was actually good at: forgery. Lock-picking. Pick-pocketing. Skills many of the boys were too impatient or too clumsy for. Anna's slim fingers slid in and out of pockets, twisted locked and fashioned provisional weapons from wire or other odds and ends. In this area, she was top of her class. _A regular Artful Dodger_ , said her teacher, an older man from the East End of London, who'd learned all the skills in practice decades earlier.  
"Yes," Ms Chen conceded, "You are very resourceful. It's one of the things that convinced us that this might be an interesting career choice for you. But this is only one of many skills you need to master. You need to be able to adapt to the requirements of the job. At the moment you can't."  
She trailed off into silence, then held up a manicured finger, the nail filed to a sharp point and painted red:  
"Firstly, your temper. Secondly, your impulsiveness. Thirdly, your language. Your language, Miss Quinn. Everyone uses the f-bomb, honey, but you can't produce a sentence without it. We need you to be ..."  
Chen paused to find the word.  
"More fucking ladylike?" Anna supplied with a sneer.  
"Yes," Chen replied. "And no. We don't train ladies, we train women who can be at home anywhere in the world. Right now, you wouldn't get in the door of The Continental. Winston would have you thrown out."

Anna had heard about The Continental. That's where she would have her final exam, her interview for Agency acceptance.  
Ms Chen shuffled her papers.  
"I understand how it is, Miss Quinn," she said. "When you're the only woman among a bunch of men, you have to be tougher, harder, you have to build a higher wall and keep people further away. One sign of weakness and they'll be all over you like a rash. I know how they whisper; I know about the teasing, the groping, the insults. I know, Miss Quinn, I know. But you have to bear in mind that the word 'fuck' is not an adequate weapon. You have other weapons, you need to arm yourself with them."  
"What other weapons?" Anna asked, despite herself. "Like, guns, or what?"  
Ms Chen smiled. "Well, yes, like guns. But also the ability to hold your tongue. To watch and assess. To recognise when best to strike. Do you know how a cat hunts? It sits and watches and waits. Then it pounces – "  
She launched herself across the desk, causing Anna to gasp, shrink back into her chair, Kay Chen's face so close to her own that she could see the other woman's pupils widen. She sat, transfixed, till Chen drew slowly away and brushed her cashmere sweater down, pulling the hem to straighten it. "- and catches its quarry. Right now, you are like a cat we let tumble out of a bag, scratching and screeching like a banshee. Do you understand?"  
Anna nodded.  
"Do you, Quinn?" the older woman repeated.  
"Fuck, yeah," she said and Chen winced.

Anna sat up straighter. "So does this mean you're not asking me to leave, then?" she asked.  
Ms Chen shook her head. "Of course not," she said. "What gave you that idea?"  
Anna opened her mouth to reply but Chen held up a slim hand and said, "Actually, it's quite the opposite. We would like you to move on to the next stage of your training. Close your mouth, Miss Quinn, it can't be that much of a shock after four years."  
"But I – " Anna thought of the modules she had yet to complete. She wasn't up to scratch in weapons and she was still halfway through two of the mandatory martial arts courses.  
"Yes, well, we have a dearth of female agents," Ms Chen said. "As you might have noticed, we are a rare breed, so Michael has made the decision to advance you to partner work but keep you under his own personal supervision."  
"I get a partner?" Anna couldn't believe her ears. When they graduated, they were each assigned a senior partner and could register as a duo at the Agency. And start earning money – good money. Most of the partners were older, people who had trained with Black and were still under contract to the Agency. Once they had served their ten years in Agency detail, they were free to strike out alone as free agents. Beforehand, they were allowed to work solo but the Agency generally preferred to send out their agents two at a time, as the success rate was generally higher. Anna sat on her hands to stop herself from clapping with glee: the guys would be sickened. Sickened. Ha!

"Who'll be my partner?" she asked eagerly.  
"Do you remember Marcus Klein?" Chen asked. "The guy who came to visit Michael before Christmas?"  
Anna remembered him. He was the kind of man that could be any age, who probably looked old when he was in his thirties. Slim, sandy-haired, forgettable. Deadly. One of New York's best professionals.  
"I do," she said eagerly. "Is he looking for a new partner? I thought he was assigned..."  
She paused. The last she'd heard, he'd been working with that dickhead, Wick. Michael Black's prodigy, his wunderkind. Maybe Marcus had dumped him? The thought made her smile. She'd be the best partner Klein ever had. He would not regret it and she would be well on her way to becoming one of the best in the business. Anna squirmed on her hands to prevent herself from punching the air in triumph.

"No, Marcus is not looking for a partner, actually. He has chosen not to renew his Agency contract and is planning to work freelance. With his reputation, of course, a very wise decision. No, it's Mr Wick who will require a partner."  
Stricken, Anna looked at her. "But he only graduated, like, three fucking years ago. He's not even on a full fucking contract. He doesn't count."  
"Well, Michael has made the unprecedented decision to pair you two up. He thinks you will complement each other nicely. You will continue your training with John, and Michael and I will vouch for him at the Agency so he can get a full contract and you can work as his junior partner."  
Anna felt the ground slip away from under her feet and, inexplicably, tears prick her eyes.  
"Aw, for fuck's sake," she snapped. "Wick? Like, John Fucking Wick? The driest fucking turd this side of the Atlantic? I have to look at his morose fucking face every day for the next few years? Come on, Ms Chen: you can't seriously think this is a good idea..."  
"We do," Chen said firmly. She stood up and walked around the desk to open the door. "And so will you."  
"And what if I refuse?" Anna said.  
"It would be in your best interest ..." Ms Chen said and paused as she considered the end of the sentence. "It would be in your best interest to give it a try," she finished. She looked at Anna carefully. "You know how our business works, Miss Quinn. We like to have all of our people neatly squared away. Safe and sound."  
She looked down on Anna from the height of her high-heels, a thin smile across her implacable face, and Anna felt a chill run down her spine. She had heard rumours about how Michael Black liked his affairs tidy, how averse he was to loose ends, loose tongues. Loose cannons.

"Give it a try," Ms Chen repeated and patted her arm. The cool fingers did nothing to reassure Anna. "We hold Mr Wick in the highest esteem and we think you two will rub along nicely."  
Anna bowed her head and walked over the threshold into the quiet corridor.  
"Okay," she murmured. "Fine."  
"Good," said Ms Chen and without her smile wavering, she shut the door.


	3. Chapter 3

John lay on his bed and looked at the ceiling. When he moved in, it had been a spider's web of hairline cracks and he'd made an attempt to plaster over them, carefully painting the ceiling when the plaster was dry. Within a week the tiny fissures had crept across the ceiling again and he'd left it as it was. When he couldn't sleep – and he often couldn't sleep – he traced the trail of the cracks from one side of the room to the other. This was one such night. He looked around his room, his source of pride and joy, trying to derive some comfort from it in the midst of his discomfort. It was the first time he'd ever had a place to call his own – not that there was much to it. It was a single room with a kitchenette at one end, a tiny bathroom tucked off the even tinier hall. But it was his: he had painted it several coats of white paint, hired a sander to sand down the uneven floorboards and varnished them black. The walls were bare, except for a couple of photographic prints that he had bought at a flea market, and the only spot of colour in the place was the large Indian throw that he spread across his bed, a riot of turquoise and blue and green, colours that reminded him of the ocean. When Markus came to pick him up for work, he liked to stand in the middle of the room and shake his head mournfully.  
"Very Spartan, my man," he would said. "Very Spartan."

But it was exactly as John liked it: minimalist, uncluttered. Calm and calming. He'd put up two bookcases in anticipation of the library he hoped to have: right now, he had just enough books for three shelves, but he was slowly ploughing his way through some of the literary greats: Nietzsche. Hemmingway. Shakespeare. He'd never read much at school – in fact, he'd never been much at school and read less either in or out of it – and only when he began his training with Michael Black did anyone comment on his reading skills. Kay Chen, always eagle-eyed, always perceptive, had been the first to venture the possibility that he might have dyslexia. John's first instinct was to deny it, afraid it would get him kicked out of yet another school, but instead Kay had found an elderly lady, a retired elementary school teacher with special training, who had spent patient hours with him, not just teaching him to read, but teaching him to love reading. Thrown into an urbane world where his peers bantered about the relative merits of the works of Sun Tzu or Niccolo Machiavelli, his lack of formal education made him feel ashamed, so on the days when he was not out on a job, he liked to sit in Central Park with a book and a pocket thesaurus and work his way slowly through whatever book Michael Black had recommended. And only when the book was finished was it allowed to take its place on his bookshelf.

John started to count the whitewashed bricks on the back wall, trying to distract himself. He was not happy with the turn of events of the past two weeks: Marcus, unexpectedly, had not decided to renew his contract at the Agency, preferring instead to work freelance. It was, he'd explained to John, perfectly sensible: he was at the peak of his game. He was in demand, could set his own price – and he wanted to do so without giving a cut to the Agency. He was sorry to do it to John, especially because he was such a good kid, but he had to get out now or sign up for a few more years – and God only knew if he'd still be alive in a few years. As usual, it was Mr Black who stepped in with a solution: he'd be John's guarantor so John could move on to full contract status, and he'd provide John with the junior partner he needed, mentoring them both. The Agency was in agreement, the High Table accepted the proposition, so all John needed was one of Black's final year students to step in and get to work.

Their choice had confounded him: the little Boston girl, the one he'd had to fight years ago when Kay Chen first picked her up off the streets. Over the past years, their paths had crossed every now and again, but she'd always made sure to avoid him. Once, standing at the side of the mats in the old warehouse where they'd had their martial arts training, he caught her staring at him from across the room, her bright blue eyes unblinking, cold. He'd stayed to see her fight and had been impressed by her ferocity, if under-impressed by her technique. When she was finished – thrown down so hard that John winced as he heard her shoulder crack – she'd gotten up, bowed stiffly at her partner and walked off, holding her arm gingerly, but with her head still high. She was easily beaten up but not easily beaten down, John had to give her that.

"Why her?" he'd asked Mr Black. "I thought your policy was to pair people up who are compatible, personality-wise. I'm not entirely sure we have anything in common."  
Mr Black had studied him. The older man's hair was almost entirely grey now and he usually kept his hands clasped tight so no one would notice the slight tremor that constantly shook them.  
"You know, I thought I would do a little experiment," he said. "You and Marcus made a great team, so measured, so thoughtful in your execution. But you know what, John? You'd never be pushed beyond your limits working with someone like Marcus. You two are alike, too alike. So I thought to myself, maybe John needs someone who will challenge him in ways he needs to be challenged in order to grow. You get me?"  
John nodded. Michael Black was all about people being challenged: growth through adversity, trials by fire, the forge of hardship creating a man. However, John had imagined something more dramatic and somewhat less bitchy than a partnership with the little foul-mouthed spitfire.  
"And she's good," Mr Black continued. "She's good in ways you are not: she can blend in and adapt like you can't. And sometimes that's more important than a good aim or a steady hand."  
John coloured. He had dutifully attended language classes and dialect coaching, but the results were less than stellar.  
"You have difficulty being anyone but yourself," Mr Black said, leaning forward to soften his words with a smile, "And she has no difficulty being anyone, except being herself. She's spontaneous, you're not."

John felt his colour deepen. "I thought you told me that impulsiveness was dangerous," he protested. After all, his first three years in training had revolved around teaching him to control his impulses, curb his spontaneity, weigh up his options and make a calculated decision in a split second.  
"That's because you were an idiot, boy," Michael Black laughed. "An idiot! When we got our hands on you, you were on a course of self-destruction. You weren't just impulsive, you didn't _think_. Your head was full of ... God only knows what was going on up there."  
"And how is she different?" John suddenly realised he didn't know her name. Quinn? But was that her first name or her last?  
"Anna Quinn is smart as paint, Mr Wick. She has good instincts and she has learned to use them in a way that compensates for a lot of her physical inadequacies – she's small, she's not strong, and she's going to get beat up real bad if we can't get her to improve in martial arts. But she thinks on her feet in ways you don't and you weigh things up in ways she doesn't. So if you don't kill each other, I think you'll go a long way to making sure neither of you gets killed by someone else."

He smiled at John and nodded at the door, his way of showing the conversation was over. John had grabbed his jacket and let himself out of the building, the three-storey industrial front that might have been a warehouse, a dingy block of offices, but actually housed classrooms and training areas, frugal sleeping accommodation and a cafeteria that served bland food and bitter coffee. He walked back to his apartment, sat at his dining room table with some leftover chow mein and a second-hand copy of _The Grapes of Wrath._ But he couldn't focus. All he could see were the cool blue eyes of the little blond woman, assessing him coldly from across the ring. He sighed. He'd trusted Michael Black's judgement on everything thus far, he'd have to trust that he knew what he was doing now as well.

Glumly John speared a forkful of noodles and returned to his book, his finger moving lightly beneath the words.


	4. Chapter 4

_*This is going to get saucy. Not safe for work. You have been warned, my friends.*_

John walked into the gym and put down his bag. Anna was standing on one of the mats, crying. Michael Black had his arm around her and John knew by the look on his face what he was saying. He glanced around and saw Maggie Chen in the corner by the narrow window that had iron bars across it, like a prison. It opened a crack out on to the alleyway and she was standing as close to the open window as she could, drawing on a cigarette as though it would give her some kind of strength.  
"Those things will kill you," John said, as he approached.  
She looked at him wryly and took another drag.  
"I should be so lucky," she answered.  
"Who was it?" he said, nodding over at Anna.  
"Girl called Kesha Washington, from the Baltimore Washingtons. Y'know her dad did the Yasugui job for Römermann?"  
"Black girl, good at weapons?" John remembered.  
"Yeah," Ms Chen said, stubbing out her cigarette. "Her father used to say, 'Michael Black can train my daughter but my daddy trained Michael Black.' Old family in the business. They won't be happy about this."  
"What happened?"  
"Routine thing. Security for the High Table meeting in Philadelphia, something got out of hand and she took a bullet meant for someone else. Stupid, really. Stupid, stupid, stupid."  
John nodded.  
"Anyway," Ms Chen said, "Michael's giving her The Talk. The we-live-by-the-sword,-we-die-by-the-sword routine. You know it," she said, inclining her head a little to look at him from under her fringe. "You've gotten it already, right?"  
He nodded his head again.  
"Be kind to her today," Ms Chen said. "Let her beat you up or something."

The first time John got The Talk was when Sunny got killed. Sunny wasn't his real name, of course, but John couldn't remember what his real name had been. Samuel? Simon? Something with 'S', but everyone called him Sunny because he was the type of person who woke up and fell asleep with a smile on his face. From Queens, he called every man 'guy' – even Mr Black, who ignored it when he was in a good mood and cut him down with a sharp, "Sunny!" when he wasn't. Even then, Sunny's smile only faltered for a couple of minutes before it returned to full wattage. He and John shared a room, and he viewed John as a particular curiosity. Already in fourth year when John started, he knew the ropes and knew how to get Maggie Chen to bend the curfew rules every few weeks to allow him to go to one of the parties at the nearby university dorms. It wasn't long before he made it his mission to take John along.

"Come on, guy," he wheedled. "Full of foreign exchange students. Like, the place is _teeming_ with them. Spaniards, Swedes, Russians." He kissed his fingertips like a connoisseur. "And you know what the best thing about these foreign women is? Their foreign booze. Buckets of it, guy. These women come from countries where they don't know about the legal age limit for drinking, these women could drink you and me under the table."  
The thought of it made John uneasy. He wasn't good with women. In a group, sure – at school, he and his friends would goof around, making the girls laugh at parties. But by the end of the night, everyone paired off and he was normally left over, feeling awkward. Too tall, too quiet, too loud, too intense. He'd had crushes and he'd endured them silently, watching the girls with other guys, watching them crying when they broke up. Other guys would've swooped in and offered them a shoulder to cry on but John stayed at a distance, unsure and uncertain of what to do.

"Come with," Sunny said, pulling at his collar in the mirror. "Seriously, come with and kick back. You might even like it..."  
And he raised an eyebrow so comically that John had to laugh, sliding off the bed to get ready to go.  
On the way to the dorms, Sunny schooled him in what to do: "You need a backstory, guy. Don't say you're a student 'cause they'll want to know what you study and you betcha there'll be someone there studying the same thing, no matter what crazy shit you think up. Ask me how I know," he said in a way that meant he didn't want to be asked. "Anyways, me, I always tell them I'm at St. Pat's seminary, studying to be a priest."  
John laughed out loud and Sunny laughed with him. "Yeah, yeah, you have no idea what effect that has on the ladies. Man, some of them take it like a personal challenge to get me off the straight and narrow."  
He chuckled and John rolled his eyes, grinning.  
"So you gotta tell them you're my friend from the seminary. You even look like a priest, they'll so buy it."  
"I'm not even Catholic," John said.  
"Yeah, no biggie," Sunny said, pressing a bell beside the large glass door. "Just tell them you don't wanna talk shop."

The party was being held in the communal living area. The music thumped so loudly that the speakers vibrated with the bass. The air was thick with cigarette smoke and perfume.  
" _Hola,_ Sunny," said a girl and kissed him on either cheek. She held both a cigarette and a wine glass in one hand, the other one on her hip.  
"Isabel from Madrid, John from somewhere around here," Sunny said.  
"Nice to meet you," she said, eyeing him up and down, then turning abruptly back to her friend. "Sunny, come, come, I want you to meet my friend Rocio."  
And she dragged him away, leaving John alone in the middle of the room. He went over to the table with the drinks and looked in the punchbowl. The liquid inside was a murky brown.  
"What's in there?" he asked the girl next to him.  
"Everything," she answered. "Everyone who brings a bottle pours it in there. If I think correctly, the last bottle has been whiskey."  
She was nearly as tall as John himself, her hair was long and dark and her eyes were green. She had a smattering of freckles across her nose. John felt his heart start to pound.  
"I like your accent," he said casually. "Where are you from?"  
" _Wien_ ," she said. "Vienna, you say in English. In Austria. That's not where the koala bears and kangaroos live, before you ask."  
He grinned. "Austria – land of strudels, Mozart and ..."  
He struggled to think of a third.  
"The birthplace of Hitler?" she offered. She looked at him teasingly. "I know you want to say it. Everyone does. Either this or some old film called _The Sound of Music_." She shrugged. "I have never seen it."  
"No way!" John said and she laughed, tossing back her hair. Some brave soul tried to pour himself a drink from the punchbowl, so she tugged his sleeve and pulled him aside. He followed her to a sagging sofa and they sat down. Franziska – that was her name, (everyone called her Franzi, she said, but John couldn't bring himself to shorten it. It was the most beautiful name he'd ever heard) – was easy to talk to. She laughed frequently, tossing her long hair about, touching John's arm. He mightn't have been very experienced, but he understood that signal. He waited till she put her drink down then quickly set his down on the floor and reached out to touch her face. It was almost as though he'd touched a switch. She seemed to glide into his arms and he began kissing her, oblivious to the other couple on the couch, the loud music and the people pushing past their feet to get into the kitchen. She moved beneath him and dipped a hand in under his jacket. He shed it quickly – his adrenalin was pumping, his heart racing, he felt like his blood was on fire – and returned to kissing her, tasting the alcohol off her lips and in her mouth. Through the cotton of his t-shirt her thumb stroked his nipple and he actually saw stars. He pulled away, shaking hard.  
 _God_ , he though. _Good God._

"You want to have some more privacy with me?" Franziska asked, standing up. She held out her hand and he took it eagerly, almost forgetting to grab his jacket as she pulled him away. They walked through the crowd, passing Sunny, who had Isabel's arms draped around his shoulders.  
" _Guy_ ," he said with an appreciative whistle. "Have fun, you two."  
Franziska laughed, tossing her hair again, and waved at Isabel.  
She led John to her room, on the floor below. The noise of the party came through the ceiling dully, so she flicked on her CD player turned the volume up. John didn't recognise the band; they were singing in German.  
"My roommate went home for the weekend," she said. She kicked off her shoes and socks. "She goes home when there is here a party. Much better for everyone, I am thinking."  
She grinned at John and opened her jeans, letting them fall to the floor. She stepped out of them neatly and kicked them aside, then pulled off her top. John gulped.  
"Do you have a condom?" she asked.  
Speechless, John shook his head.  
"Never mind, I have some," she replied. "So – what is deal? Are we having a fuck or not?"

John didn't need to be asked twice. He shed clothes faster than he had ever done so before and squeezed in beside her in her single bed. He could feel every skin cell her body was touching; his own was hypersensitive to every touch. He kissed her more roughly than he intended, trying to cup a breast, run a hand down her back and over her ass.  
"Stop," she gasped. "Slow down, John."  
She drew back as far as she could in the narrow bed to look at him.  
"What is wrong?" she said. "Have you never had sex before, or?"  
He felt the colour rise from his chest, up his neck.  
"How old are you?" she asked.  
"Nineteen," he mumbled. And then added, "How old are you?"  
"Twenty-three," she said. "I like younger men."  
And she laughed her peeling laugh, which made him feel a little better.  
"I must better be extra good then," she said solemnly, and pushed him onto his back. She sat astride him, took a condom out of the bedside table and ripped the foil packet open with her teeth. She rolled it down over his cock and then slowly lowered herself down on to him in a self-explanatory way. She put his hands on her breasts, then raised her arms over her head, moving up and down on him sinuously, her eyes closed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. John looked at her above him and tried to stop himself, but she moved a little faster and he couldn't help it. He thrust into her rapidly and he came.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered as she lay on his chest.  
"It's fine," she said. "Now you won't be in such a hurry when we do it again."  
John's heart sang at the thought that they would do it again; Franziska cupped his smooth cheek and pulled him down for a kiss.  
"A little rest, then we go again, ok?" she said. John lay back on the pillow, a smile on his face. He could go again immediately.

He woke at dawn, when Sunny banged the door. He crawled over Franziska, kissing her sleeping face, her hair as he did so. She grunted and swatted him away, the way you would a fly. He pulled his clothes on and told Sunny – who gave the door another sharp rap – to cool it, he'd be there in a minute. He knelt by the bed and shook her gently.  
"Franziska," he whispered. "Franziska."  
She opened an eye. "You going?" she said.  
He bent to kiss her again but she turned her head away, stifling a yawn.  
"When will I see you again?" he said.  
She stretched. "We'll see each other around before I go back to Austria," she said.  
An icy stone dropped into the pit of John's stomach.  
"When are you leaving?"  
She laughed, her green eyes dancing. "End of the month."  
John thought rapidly. "Next week is the end of the month," he said.  
Sunny rapped the door again. "John," he said impatiently. "We gotta get back for breakfast, guy."  
She patted his cheek again. "Yes," she said. She pointed at the door. "Your friend is waiting for you."  
John didn't know what to say. He grabbed his jacket off the chair, slipped his feet in his shoes without bothering to tie the laces. He paused at the door, not knowing what to say.  
"Goodbye, Franziska," he said finally. "Eh... thank you?"  
"Welcome," came the muffled reply from under her comforter.

John let himself out. Sunny was standing in the corridor and his face broke into a wide grin when he saw him. "Have fun?" he asked.  
"Yeah."  
"How many funs?"  
John paused. "Three," he said. Each time better than the last. Each time he learned something new. By the third time he could make her writhe underneath him. He thought he made her orgasm; she was certainly very appreciative.  
"Way to go!" Sunny said and held up a hand for a high five. "Ah, come on," he said, when John hesitated. "I think that deserves a little bit of skin."  
John returned the salute.  
"She kind of..." he searched for the words. "She kind of ... you know, like, said goodbye. I guess it was a one-night stand?"  
Even as he said it, he thought his heart would break.  
"Sure it was," Sunny replied confidently. "She's got a boyfriend back in Austria and she was with a French guy over here till he went back to Gay Paree a coupla weeks ago. She and the boyfriend are on a break till she goes back, apparently. Doesn't count as cheating on another continent."  
John's broken heart sank.  
"Okay," he mumbled. "Yeah."

Sunny put an arm around his shoulders.  
"Come on, John," he said. "You gotta learn the difference between a fun night and a long-term relationship, man. You just enjoy it for what it is and if something comes out of it, so be it. Amiright?"  
John nodded.  
"Trouble with you, man, is that you're the type that will fall hard. You gotta toughen up a little, see? But dontcha worry, your ol' pal Sunny will keep an eye on you. I'm going to bring you to a whole buncha parties and you're gonna screw your brains out. Okay?"  
John forced a smile. "Okay," he replied.  
"I'm gonna have the women lined up for you, guy," he said. "I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die."

And two weeks later, on a training run with his new senior partner, he was killed when the car he was driving spun out of control on a wet street. He'd been driving fast, as they'd been taught, and misjudged the traction on the road. His partner had managed to squeeze out the window, wiping down the dash and the door with his sleeve, left the young man in the mangled car. The emergency services that cut him out didn't know they'd been practising evasive tactics on near-empty streets at 4 a.m., they just presumed it was another young guy who'd been driving too fast, looking for thrills. Michael Black, named his next of kin, was informed and sent Maggie Chen to gather Sunny's personal effects for his family and break the news to John, who took it in stony silence.

Later that day, Michael Black took him aside, placing a hand on his shoulder so he could turn him to look straight into his eyes. He gave John something his protégé later came to recognise as The Talk – they had all chosen this profession, they knew the inherent dangers. Sunny was a good agent, a professional with great potential, but his death would teach others lessons that might save their lives in the future. It was not in vain.  
John nodded, too numb to really speak.  
"It gets easier," Mr Black said. "You will become quite philosophical about it, Jonathan."

xxx

Had he become philosophical? John wondered, as he watched Maggie Chen go up to Anna and give her a hug and a Kleenex. Anna wiped her eyes, rubbing that thick eye makeup she wore into a smeared mess. She walked towards John, on the way to the toilets.  
"I'm sorry, Anna," he said.  
She looked up at him. "Thank you," she replied quietly, humbly. It was the first time he'd every seen her anything but brash. Spontaneously he reached out and pulled her in, squeezing her in a hug. For a moment, she rested her head against his chest and he felt a small movement as she inhaled. He kissed her hair and let her go. She gave him a watery, snotty smile and pointed at the toilet door.  
"I'm a mess," she said.  
He watched her walk off and something inside him shifted, moved. For the first time he couldn't see the fast-talking, brazen Boston girl, with her grating voice and the simmering aggression, always just below the surface. She was suddenly small, vulnerable and far more ... human. She came out of the restroom with her eye makeup removed and she looked younger. Actually, she looked her age, as her makeup tended to make her look older and jaded. Passing John, she smiled up at him, shades of her old form returning.  
"You ready, Wick?" she said. "You better not let me win out of pity."  
"Never," he replied solemnly to cover the fact that it was a lie.


	5. Chapter 5

"You know who the most fearsome warriors are?" Marcus asked.  
John leaned in to hear him over the jazz band on stage.  
"Child soldiers," Marcus said. "Get them young, train them early. No conscience, no remorse. Ferocious. Merciless. That's what Michael Black is doing, pulling in children off the street and training them up to be his soldiers. And what does he end up with? A bunch of damaged psychopaths. Like that child over there."  
He nodded across the bar and John followed his gaze. Anna Quinn was weaving her way through the crowd, steady on high heels, her long-stemmed glass grasped by red fingernails. The other men in the bar shifted in their seats, as though an electrical current had run through the room, some looking at her, some looking away so no one might know how much they wanted to look. Michael Black, deep in conversation with the German, Römermann, paused his conversation to look at her, then turned away. She stopped at a table and looked slowly around, her body entirely still except for her eyes, a tilt of her head. Then she saw James Cohen and bestowed upon him a warm smile that made him grin instinctively in return. Her body swung into motion again and she approached his table, placing her glass on it firmly, as though she were marking her territory.  
John looked away. Looked down at his bourbon.

"You gotta dump her," Marcus said. "She's a liability."  
John shook his head. He lifted his glass to his lips and hesitated, then shook his head again.  
The girl, wearing a tight dress of some kind of stretchy black material, was talking to James Cohen – if talking was even the right word. Purring, maybe. She was standing beside him, her back arched, head tipped sideways, those bright blue eyes fixed on the older man as though they were the only ones in the basement bar of the Continental. And he, the fool, was lapping it all up.  
"I'm tellin' ya," Marcus continued, "you gotta let her go. What was Michael think of, hooking you two up together? It's madness."  
"She's okay," John mumbled and Marcus saw that tell-tale tinge of pink darken his cheeks. His former partner was trying to grow a beard and although it helped to make him look a bit older, it couldn't hide the fact that he still blushed.  
"Don't tell me you gotta thing for her?" Marcus said. "Seriously, John?"  
"No, it's not – I don't," he said. "She's okay, really. Mostly."  
"She's getting a reputation," Marcus warned. "She's a flirt, a spitfire. She's gonna drag you down."

At that moment, Anna Quinn looked up and looked straight at him, as though she'd heard. John glanced over at her and quickly looked away.  
 _For crying out loud,_ Marcus thought crossly. _Don't tell me this guy has fallen for her, too._  
Miss Quinn brushed something off Cohen's shoulder and whispered something in his ear, then walked away, her sweet smile melting: By the time she reached the bar, her face was grim.  
"Marcus," she said, arriving at their side. She nodded at Addy behind the bar, who swiftly poured her a Martini. Addy didn't like her, she placed the drink on the napkin with ill-grace, flashing John her widest smile.  
"What're you doing with James Cohen?" Marcus asked.  
"What the fuck do you care?"  
"What the fuck do I care? He's gonna be after a lot of the same damn contracts as you, that's what I care. And people are saying you blab, that's what."  
"Fuck off, Marcus," she said. "Like you fucking give a fucking shit. I don't fucking say nothing, that's what. And stop fucking wincing every time I open my fucking mouth, Wick."  
"Seriously, Quinn," John protested. "You can't open your mouth without cursing. You've got to moderate your language – we're in the big league now, you talk like you're a locker room somewhere."  
Her face reddened, but unlike John, her colour came from temper.  
"Are you two seriously giving me a fucking lecture about decorum?" she snapped. "What the fuck?"

Behind the bar, Addy stepped away, pretending to busy herself with glasses. John shifted on his stool.  
"Anna," he said quietly, "you've got to adapt. Stuff that was okay when we were training is just not ... appropriate any more. Like, like your mouth."  
"Like my mouth?" she said softly and Marcus saw her look into John's eyes, then drop her eyes to his mouth. Her tongue flicked out to moisten her lips, like a cat, then she raised her eyes to his again. It was a matter of seconds, but Marcus saw how it flustered him. Threw him.  
 _The bitch,_ he thought.  
"Fuck off, John Wick," she said in the same soft tone, amused by her ability to disconcert him. "Don't you tell me what I have to fucking do."  
" _Anna_ ," Marcus hissed.  
"What?" she said, exasperated. "It's who I fucking am. Deal with it."  
"It is who she is," John said dolefully. "She couldn't go a day without saying _fuck_."  
"I could if I wanted to," she retorted. "But I don't want to."  
Marcus saw an opening, an opportunity.  
"Sure," he said, shrugging. "Yeah."  
"I could," she said.  
He snorted and drank deep. "Yeah."  
"Seriously, I fucking could," she insisted.  
Marcus and John laughed.  
"You couldn't," John shrugged.  
"You wanna bet?" she said, hands on hips.  
"Sure," John replied casually. "That's a bet I could win."

"What's a bet you could win?" Winston said, appearing at his shoulder. He smiled at Anna. Marcus couldn't quite figure out why, but the hotel owner had taken a shine to the little blond woman, despite her vulgarities.  
"We're betting that Anna here could not go a day without cursing," John said.  
"I could go much longer than a day," she scoffed. "It's not like it's a big fucking deal. A big deal," she corrected.  
"And what is the wager?" Winston asked.  
John looked at Anna.  
"If she loses, she'll owe me a favour," he said.  
"Fine," she said dismissively. "A favour. Whatevs."  
"No, no, little bird," Winston said. "In our business a favour is a serious thing. A commodity to be taken seriously. If you owe him a favour, he can transfer that debt to another. Think carefully on it."  
"I'm not stupid," she said crossly. "I can do it. It's just cursing for f- for crying out loud. Jeez."  
Winston clicked his fingers and Addy scurried over.  
"A piece of paper, my poppet," he said. "And a pen."  
She pushed a notepad across the bar and Winston handed it to Anna.  
"Write," he said.  
She grinned and wrote:  
 _I, John Wick, do hereby bet that Miss Anna Quinn cannot refrain from cursing in my presence,_ _a challenge she herewith accepts.  
_ "So, like, what constitutes cursing?" she asked.  
John gave her a few examples and she wrote them down. She then added a few more, taking pleasure in sounding them out as she wrote them down: "Twatweasel? Yes? Shitgibbon? Stinktwizzler? Really? Stinktwizzler? Come on, that's hardly R-Rated, is it? Okay, okay."  
"That's some list," Marcus said looking it over. She looked almost proud.  
"And what if I'm, you know, under pressure or something?" she asked.  
"Still no," John said.  
"Fine." And she finished:  
 _Should she curse in my proximity, even under duress, she shall owe me A Favour, to be redeemed at my convenience. Signed ..."  
_ "One moment," Winston said "We need a witness." He signalled Michael Black by raising a discreet finger. The old man excused himself and left the booth with Römermann slowly, gripping the edge of the table to steady himself.

"Michael," Winston said, "Would you be so kind as to witness this transaction?"  
Mr Black read the paper silently, then turned to Anna, his face twisted into a half-smile. "You know the implications of this, girl?" he said. "You know what a favour means?"  
"Yes," she said impatiently and took the impromptu contract out of his hands. She signed it with a flourish and handed it over to John. He signed, as did Marcus and Mr Black.  
"Shake on it," Marcus said and they shook. "You kids," he sighed. "You wear me out."  
Anna looked from one to another and drained her glass.  
"I'm going to bed," she said. Suddenly, she looked flat, drained. All of the _oomph_ had gone out of her. "Good night, gentlemen."  
She walked out of the bar, no sinuous swaying, no eye contact with eager men.  
"I think you broke her," Marcus said. "I think cursing was her superpower, man. She'll be calling you a shithead before tomorrow is over."  
"No," John replied. "No, she won't. She's tenacious. She will do everything in her power not to lose this bet."  
Winston cleared his throat. "I must return to my business," he said. "I wish you a pleasant evening gentlemen."  
Marcus glanced at John but he was looking at the door, through which she had just left.  
 _Poor fool,_ he thought.

x x x

John put his key in the door, listened for the click.  
Suddenly, the door next to his opened. It was Anna. She was in her night clothes, cotton pants and t-shirt - as they had been trained to be, ready to run at a second's notice.  
"Jonathan," she said. "Would you possibly step inside for a moment?"  
Her voice was different, the lower, with the modulated tones of an upper-class English accent.  
"Why are you speaking like that?" he asked. "You sound like ... you sound like – "  
"Emma Thompson?" she finished. "Yes, I know. I've been studying her and I jolly well think I've cracked it. So I just wanted to let you know that I am perfectly capable of playing the role of a classy lady, lest you were worried."  
She smiled sweetly at him.  
"What ... why are you telling me this?"  
She snapped back into her normal accent.  
"I'm not an idiot," she said, in her Boston twang. "You guys think I'm some kinda dope. Sure, I flirt with guys but I don't blab. I tell them all kinds of crap but nothing important, and in return, they tell me all kinds of sh – stuff. Like Cohen tonight? I know where he comes from, I know where he goes at the weekend, I know what his next job will be. And I _remember_ cr – things like this."  
She tapped the side of her forehead. "I remember _everything_ , John. Everything I find out, I file away in my brain because some day it's going to be useful. It's going to give us leverage. I know they all think I'm easy, but I don't do nothing with nobody. I just flirt, act like a vulgar little halfwit and I _learn_. It's my weapon and I happen to be good at using it."  
He nodded.  
"And if needs be," she said in her Emma Thompson voice, "I shan't hesitate to adapt to the circumstances at hand."  
John smiled. "I get it, Quinn."  
She opened the bedroom door to let him out.  
"Good night, darling," she said, in her English accent. "Sleep tight, bunnikins."  
"The contract still stands, though," he said, opening his door.  
She stared at him, then closed her door.  
He heard something muffled from within and grinned. She was probably calling him every name under the sun in the sanctuary of her own room.


End file.
